


Per aspera ad astra

by iiscos



Series: Chapters [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Eventual Happy Ending, Fix-It, M/M, force ghost!noctis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-05-18 12:17:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14852594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiscos/pseuds/iiscos
Summary: "Through hardship to the stars"Two years after light was returned to Eos, Noctis invites Prompto to one last journey for old time's sake.





	1. Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote the beginning and made some formatting/stylistic changes. Sorry if you're rereading some parts.
> 
> Again, in short, I bought FFXV with every intention of enjoying it casually in my downtime, but the bromance(s) and ending left me with no choice but to scourge the internet for fix-it fics (and then to write my own).
> 
> Also, RIP Prompto's goatee.

_Faith is the bird that feels the light when the dawn is still dark._

—Aphorism, Rabindranath Tagore 

~~

Prompto watched as dawn broke behind the distant mountains of Leide, the first gleam of sunlight evaporating the squid-ink night and limning the silhouettes of storm clouds in halos of gold. Dawn marked the two-year anniversary of the purge of darkness, two years since the True King of Lucis lifted Eos from the turmoil of the Starscourge, so that light may return once more for the 730th consecutive day.

Dawn is the bearer of hope—a promise that the darkest period of their millennium resided in the horrors of yesterday and that peace and healing would now follow with each steadfast cycle of night and day. But Dawn also brings the brutal truth of all which had been taken, all which had been lost, the ruins of a once splendid civilization laid stagnant and bare without shadows to shroud the cruelness of reality.  

After their final battle against Ardyn that freed Eos from eternal night, Ignis and Gladio returned to Insomnia and resumed their positions as royal advisor and protector. Prompto, unsure of his purpose with the coming of dawn, eventually chose to leave.

He did not belong in the Crown City among the frigid formality and virtuous talk of politicians. What could they possibly know about true suffering, hidden as they were behind their wealth and privilege and city walls? Prompto only came to the Crown City years ago, and for the briefest of moments, because of Noctis. And now, with Noct gone, Prompto truly had no reason to stay.

He was of more use away from the city, anyway.

Prompto was a good man—or at least, he tried to be—foregoing luxury and stability so he may travel across Eos to aid those displaced during the decade of darkness. He offered his protection with kindness and generosity, never asking for more than what was absolutely necessary in return—may it be a simple meal, a roof to sleep below, or just a word of thanks and a promise to pay forward the same magnanimity to others in need.

Prompto was a good man every day of the month except for, perhaps, the last, when he would allow himself to succumb to weakness if only for an evening, to reopen his heart to his own misery normally hidden behind a brave mask. It wasn’t much of a coincidence either, that the anniversary of Dawn fell on the last day of the month.

While the rest of Eos rejoiced, Prompto secluded himself among the caves and deserts, with only a bottle of Galdin whiskey by his side. He drank the vile liquid at a punishing pace—loathing the fire coating his throat, stirring bitter nausea in his empty stomach. He was never good at holding his liquor, and nor did he enjoy drunkeness or losing control, with the rare exception of a few celebrations in his youth—all of them involving Noctis in some way or another. But now, Prompto drank without a desire to celebrate, hapless and alone as his movements mirrored the urgency of an addict, the desperation of a lost soul in search of grace.

For one day, Prompto allowed himself to forget his purpose in a world without kings or gods and his promise to an old friend to walk tall and continue what he could not. For one day, Prompto demanded selfishly for himself—the last day of the month which fell on the anniversary of Dawn—a day that had simultaneously restored hope to Eos and destroyed a small, childish dream Prompto had held onto foolishly and desperately for nearly fifteen years. 

For one day, in a month, in what remains of his lifetime, Prompto was determined to see Noctis.

~~

When Prompto regained consciousness, he was no longer beside the fire of his camp, heart aching and mind lost in an indecipherable alcohol-induced haze. Instead, he was sprawled on his back in a field of sylleblossoms, the sky above a celestial medley of lavenders and blues, illuminated by a large, orange moon.

Noctis sat beside him, arms crossed over his knees. His hair was longer compared to the last time they had met, dark locks falling over the sides of his forehead rather than his eyes. He chose to wear the simple black suit he had on the night he returned after a decade of sleep, but his face was smooth—cleanly shaven, handsome, and regal.

“You shouldn’t drink so much,” he said without looking at Prompto, his small frown nearly imperceptible, “It’s not good for you. And you don’t even enjoy it.”

Prompto stretched before pushing himself to sit, responding in his most cheerful, sing-song voice, “Well, how else am I supposed to find you?”

Noctis shrugged without answering.

“Happy two years, Noct,” Prompto smiled as he settled beside his friend, brushing away the flower petals and pollen from his blonde hair.

This was their ritual, ever since Prompto drank too much the same night a year ago during the first anniversary of Dawn, when he felt a little too helpless and a little too lost to endure the rest of his night alone. In the months that followed, Prompto sought out Noctis under similar circumstances, sometimes out of loneliness, weakness, or despair. But for the most part, he had no particular reason other than to talk.

 

Prompto did most of the talking, which he supposed wasn’t much of a difference from when Noctis was still alive. Noct listened and engaged, but he rarely answered Prompto’s questions fully, not even silly ones like _did Ravus get his arm back in the afterlife_.

He did manage to tease a smile out of Noct with that one; smiles were hard to come by, nowadays. 

Prompto wondered if certain subjects were simply forbidden, given the differences in their states of existence and in their importance to the universe at large. He doubted he would get an answer out of Noct even if he asked, but neither was he looking for any answers in particular. He only wanted to see Noct—in any way, shape, or form—and he wasn't going to ruin these opportunities with needless questions.

“I’m meeting Iris tomorrow,” Prompto said, “Outside of Longwythe, and we’ll head into town together for a hunt. I haven’t seen her in so long—six months, maybe?”

“What about Ignis and Gladio?” Noct asked. 

“Uhm…Well, they’re in Insomnia.” Prompto lowered his head sheepishly. “I guess I haven’t really seen anyone these days.” 

“It wouldn’t hurt to make more of an effort, you know?” Noct chastised, but there was no real scorn in his voice, “You said it yourself that we were the only real friends you’ve ever hand. What good would that do for you, if you refuse to even talk to them?”

“I don’t refuse to talk to them,” Prompto protested, “At least, not the way you’re making it sound. We just—belong to different worlds.”

“You all live in the same world. The same Eos.”

“No, I mean—I’m better off here, helping people outside of the Crown City, don’t you think?” Prompto nudged Noctis with his knee, urging Noct to finally look at him. “Besides, that comment was directed more towards you. _You_ were the first friend I’ve ever had.”

“Don’t say that.” Noct sounded more irritated this time. “Ignis and Gladio, they would fight a Behemoth with their bare hands, for you.”

“I know that—I _know_. And I for them.”

“They make better company too. They’re still alive.”

“I think you are just as good,” Prompto insisted, and Noct breathed out a sigh of exasperation, threading his fingers through his raven hair.

“Once a month? In a dream? Really, Prompto.”

“Yeah,” Prompto smiled, or at least, he tried to, “It’s more than I could have ever hoped for. Talking to you now, it feels like you’re still with me. It feels real.”

Prompto bit his lip, looking away. Noct’s expression softened, but he said nothing in return.

"Noct, are you—" Prompto exhaled a shaky breath, mulling over the anguish in his chest, before finally asking a question which he knew would remain unanswered. "Are you real?" 

Noct watched him with a practiced calm that almost concealed the apology in his eyes. “What do you think?”

Prompto shook his head, letting out a small, mirthless laugh. Noct looked real, sounded real, _felt_ real, but once the dream was over and reality inevitably returned, doubt would consume every fragment of Prompto’s thought for days to come. Maybe Prompto was hopeless, maybe he was insane. He certainly felt insane, believing that someone as important as Noct—the True King of Lucis, the prophetic savior of their legends—would defy the order of nature just to engage in the very mortal and very inconsequential woes of a former best friend.

“I don’t know,” Prompto responded earnestly, “A part of me wants you to be real, and a part of me doesn’t.”

“Why?” Noct asked.

“Why?” Prompto laughed. “Because I miss you, silly." 

“And why not?" 

“Because—” Prompto sighed, lifting his gaze so that he was speaking to the stars instead. “Because if you’re here, that means you’re not truly at peace. Why else would you talk to me?”

“Because I miss you too,” Noct said, and the way the words seemed to escape, effortless like a simple but unshakable fact, was enough to _kill_ Prompto. “But we live on different planes now, Prompto. You have to accept that.”

“I know,” Prompto said as the stars and sky above merge in a blur of tears. “I just wish we were—I want to be with you, Noct.”

“And you will,” Noct comforted him, “When the time comes. Just not now, or any time soon.”

“Is it too much to ask for you to stay with me until then?” Prompto asked pathetically, wishing he could be stronger, even if only for his memory of Noct.

“I don’t know,” Noct said as he shifted closer to Prompto, draping an arm over the shivering blonde. “But I’ll try.”

~~ 

Iris greeted Prompto with a hug and a peck on his cheek when she finally found her way to his campsite outside Longwyth.

“You shaved!” She giggled, swiping a thumb along Prompto’s now smooth chin. 

“Yeah.” Prompto fidgeted under her touch, blushing. “Cindy wasn’t feeling it anymore.” 

“Oh, what you _wouldn’t_ do for a pretty girl’s attention.” Iris rolled her eyes before dropping her bag beside her speeder. She had cut her hair even shorter since the last time they met, the wavy mop sitting playfully atop her head as rebellious tufts danced in the wind.

“She did me a huge favor though,” Prompto confessed, “Fixed my bike and completely rewired the engine when I didn’t have a single gil on me. Believe me, I needed her help.” 

“Well, repay her when you get the chance,” Iris teased, wrinkling her nose at him. “Don’t think you’re off the hook just because you got rid of that _thing_ on your chin.”

“I know, I know,” Prompto laughed, “But that’s not the only reason why I shaved. I was getting recognized too often.”

Since the end of the Starscourge, Prompto, Ignis, and Gladio had become three of the most famous people across Eos, their photos printed on the covers of every newspaper for months as the world strived towards revelation and acceptance. The most circulated photo was of the four of them in their Kingsglaive uniforms, a photo Prompto had taken himself and given away to the press afterwards. His most notable features were his blonde hair and his goatee, and if he had to choose one to sacrifice for the sake of anonymity, the goatee was the obvious choice.

“Wouldn’t it have worked better if you grew a beard instead,” Iris quipped before bursting into laughter.

“Stop it.” Prompto rubbed shyly at his stubble-less cheeks. “You know I can’t.”

They prepared dinner together with the ingredients Iris had collected along the way—turmeric, chicory, and a handful of wild asparagus. Meanwhile, Prompto made quick work of two quails he found feeding in the tall grass, quartering them for Iris’s stew. 

“Smells great,” Prompto commented, leaning over Iris’s shoulder as she stirred the contents of the pot, her brows knitted in concentration. “Just like know Ignis used to make it.”

“Oh, don’t flatter me,” Iris huffed without sparing him a glance. 

“I’m serious,” Prompto insisted, laughing. 

“Well, you probably need to eat better. And take better care of yourself.”

Prompto sighed as he reached beneath his jacket, feeling the curves and dips of his ribs under the cotton of his shirt. He was thin, but he had always been thin. Maybe he wasn’t eating enough—or particularly well. It was just hard to do so when travelling alone, without friends looking out for you or reminding you to slow down and _eat_ when even an hour of rest for dinner felt like too much of a luxury.

They shared their meal by the fire, the state of Lucis an inevitable topic of dinnertime discussion. For two years now, Lucis and Niflheim remained leaderless, a struggle for dominance inevitably permeating the vacuum of power left by their previous leaders. The surviving royal families of Lucis disputed to no avail over the right to kingship, now that the bloodline of Lucis had irrevocably ended. 

“Ignis and Gladdy try to keep peace as best as they could, but tensions are high,” Iris explained between spoonfuls of soup, “Even they are pitted against one another at times.”

Meanwhile, chaos and menace rankled in the ghost cities of Niflheim, the remaining nobles struggling to establish a new regime, their motives as questionable as their capacity to rebuild an empire, a people destroyed so utterly by wayward leaders before them.

“There have been talks of reparations because, well, Niflheim _did_ support Ardyn and his plans, whether they fully realized the consequences or not,” Iris said, “But Niflheim has their own refugee problem, and their cities had fallen to ruins long before the Starscourge overcame Lucis. So many of their citizens are sick and dying. Frankly, they have nothing to give, even if they were willing.” 

Tenebrae had closed their boarders indefinitely in an attempt to regain the Astrals’ good grace. Their temples rang hollow silence ever since the last of their Oracle passed away, but for better or for worse, the rest of Eos as a whole appeared less religious—the decade of darkness, the indiscriminate destruction of both mortals and divine, only served to show that nothing, not even Astrals, are infallible. 

Nevertheless, despite the difficult road to recovery, Eos after the Starscourge was not without happiness, no matter how sparing or small. For the first time in a decade, people finally dared to _hope_.

“Gladdy’s getting married!” Iris clapped together her hands joyfully. “But act surprised when he tells you. I wasn’t supposed to tell, but—it’s just such happy news!”

“Gladio? Seriously?” Prompto looked up from his dinner, wide-eyed.

“He met someone on the road a few years ago, if you remember,” Iris explained, “Leona, the daughter of a smith in Lestallum. She’s a weapons expert in her own right. A match made in heaven, don’t you think?”

“No doubt, yeah,” Prompto laughed in both disbelief and incredible happiness for his old friend, “Who would’ve thought that Gladio would be the first of us to get hitched.”

“What’s that supposed to mean,” Iris huffed indignantly in defense of her brother, before reconsidering her protest, “Oh, I guess we all assumed that Noct would have been the first. He was engaged since he was 12, after all.”

“Right, Noct...” Prompto sighed sadly, and Iris was quick to apologize. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring him up like that…”

“No, no,” Prompto waved away her concerns, returning a genuine smile. “Don’t apologize for that. It’s fine— _really_.” After all, Noct was constantly on Prompto's mind, irrespective of whether Iris mentioned him or not.  

“You would come back for the wedding, won’t you?” Iris’s voice was suddenly hesitant and small, and Prompto blinked at her in confusion. 

“Of course, I would be there for Gladio. Why wouldn’t I?”

“You never seem too keen on returning anymore,” Iris shrugged, watching him with doleful eyes. “But I kind of get it too—why you chose to leave. I left for the same reason. It just doesn’t feel right to stay when we know firsthand that there’s so much suffering out here.”

“Yeah,” Prompto agreed, “Not that there’s anything wrong with staying. Ignis and Gladio, they both know exactly what they need to do. They’re working towards long-term solutions that will eventually save us all. But I—I don’t have that ability. And I’ve never been good at sitting still.” 

“You should come back sometime when you get the chance, though,” Iris insisted, meaningfully, “Everyone will be happy to see you, even if only for a little while. Just so that they know you’re doing alright—from you, personally.”

“I know,” Prompto smiled at Iris, his words failing miserably to convey the extent of his gratitude for her friendship, her kindness, and her determination to find him again and again when he offered nothing to facilitate her search for him. “Thank you for being here, for everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback greatly appreciated! <3


	2. Iris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is growing longer than I expected, which is why I tried to power through the next chapter before life gets busy again. 
> 
> Lots of angst so far, but I swear this is actually a fix-it (of sorts).
> 
> Thanks and enjoy!

“Watch out!” Iris shouted, and before Prompto could react, the silver of her greatsword flashed past his vision, lodging into the throat of the Sabertusk only inches behind him.

“Shit!” Prompto staggered backwards, startled but unharmed. The rest of the beasts scampered away, seeing their alpha slain. Prompto aimed for their retreating figures but decided against pulling the trigger. Hopefully, they had learned to stay away from those poor farmers and their livestock.

“How have you managed to survive this long hunting by yourself?” Iris admonished with an irate huff, recovering her blade from the carcass. “That Sabertusk was a second away from ripping your head off!”

“Luck, I guess?” Prompto said, flashing a wry smile. “I owe you one.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Iris mumbled, “No one’s keeping tabs.”

Iris was truly Gladio’s sister—not that Prompto had any modicum of doubt before. After Noctis had disappeared into the Crystal and daylight rapidly vanished from the world, Iris spent her latter teenage years in Lestallum under the mentorship of Cor Leonis. _Iris the Daemon Slayer_ was the name she earned for herself, and Prompto supposed it was only fitting, watching her wield her greatsword with the same finesse and ease as she would with a dagger, combining grace with unwavering strength as beasts collapsed all around her.

“I didn’t think I’d ever find anyone other than Gladio who could wield a greatsword like that,” Prompto said as he and Iris stopped by a small creek for rest.

“I’m not an Amicitia for nothing,” Iris responded proudly as she washed the blood and grime off her blade.

“Noct never looked comfortable wielding greatswords,” Prompto recalled, “He would never admit it, but I think he found them too heavy. They were his least favorite, but you make them look so easy.”

“That’s because I’m stronger than him,” Iris winked, drawing a sharp laughter from Prompto.

“I suppose,” Prompto flexed his arm in a mock gesture of showing off, before sighing dramatically, “You have me beat, that’s for sure.”

~~

They returned to an outpost near Longwythe to retrieve their reward for the successful hunt. As Iris divided the gils between them, Prompto spotted a faint silver glimmer beneath the road sign leading into the village. He winced at it, shielding his eyes from the beating sun above.

“A medal,” he said upon closer inspection, loosening the object from dry, packed dirt, “Pretty good condition. Just need a little polish and it’ll look brand new.”

“You can pawn it for a decent price too,” Iris agreed.

“We can pawn it now and split the reward,” Prompto suggested, but Iris shook her head.

“You found it, you take it. Besides, you need it more.”

Prompto smiled as he slipped the medal into the pocket of his jacket. “If you insist, Iris. Thanks.”

Just then, a scream for help not far into the village alerted both Prompto and Iris. They rushed down the cobblestone street, hands on the hilts of their weapons, and before long, Prompto spotted a cloaked figure bolting out of the town square, gripping protectively at a bundle in his arms.

“Thief! Thief!” cried a middle-aged man stumbling out of his shop, and Prompto’s hand relaxed on his trigger as he halted in his stride. It was only a case of petty thievery, he thought. Better to focus on limiting collateral damage than to use excessive force.

“Drop it, and we’ll let you off easy,” Iris shouted, drawing her impressive blade, but the thief veered away from her instead of stopping, determined to hang on to the stolen goods.

Prompto pondered how important the loot must be, for this thief persist despite mounting pursuit, as he took advantage of the momentary distraction Iris offered to tackle the thief to the ground. They tumbled together on the dusty ground for a moment, before a boot connected solidly against Prompto’s chest.

“Oof,” Prompto groaned just as an orange—shockingly bright and saturated in color—rolled across his vision before the ashen backdrop of cobblestone. He pushed himself to sit and noticed the scattered oranges and a loaf of bread around him. The thief had robbed a grocer’s store. He was stealing food.

Prompto turned to the thief, the hood of his cloak had fallen to reveal a mop of silver hair. The thief returned Prompto’s stare, his own eyes gleaming fiercely despite being so startled and so young. He was just a boy, fourteen or fifteen at most.

But something was off, as Prompto watched more closely—something about the boy’s eyes, how dark they were, almost _too_ dark.

“Let him go,” Prompto said quietly, without thinking, as he turned to the store clerk—a rotund, middle-aged man whose wispy brown hair was just beginning to recede.

The man's eyes bore into Prompto, his churlish expression soon turning into that of realization and awe. “Y-You’re one of the Kingslaive soldiers who fought in the final battle. What are you doing here? Why are you defending a common crook?”

Prompto, unable to formulate an answer, chose to ignore the question. “Here,” he said, fishing out the medal he had uncovered earlier. “For what was taken, and also, for the trouble.”

The clerk stared at the offering with skepticism, before reaching to accept it. He would be a fool not to; the medal could compensate ten times for what the boy had stolen.

Prompto reached to help the boy, but the boy, mistaking his gesture for an attack, flinches away violently. And suddenly, Prompto could see it now—the dark pupils of his eyes appearing to spread like ink in water, spilling past his lashes and down his pale cheeks.

The boy grasped for the hood of his cloak, desperately trying to hide his condition, but the startled gasps around him suggested that he was all but too late.

“Everyone stand back!” Iris shouted, rushing closer to Prompto as the crowd of villagers dispersed in panic, mothers ushering their small children back into the safety of their homes.

“Wait!” Prompto stumbled forward, planting himself between Iris and the boy. “Don’t, Iris.”

Iris halted, but her shoulders remained tense and her eyes wary. She scanned their periphery to confirm that no bystanders would be in immediate danger if a struggle did ensue. And only then, did she lower her blade.

“We can handle things here,” Prompto spoke to the boy quickly but calmly, “Get your stuff and go.”

The boy, without a word, gathered the scattered fruits and bread, before disappearing into the desert beyond the gates of the village.

~~

“What do you know about the shadow illness?” Iris asked Prompto later that night, as they shared dinner before a burning fire.

“Not much.” Prompto shrugged. “Not more than anyone else.”

“I’m only asking because back there, with that kid, you seemed pretty confident.”

“He wasn’t going to hurt anyone.”

“How do you know that?”

“He won’t turn into a daemon, Iris,” Prompto replied, perhaps a touch too emphatically. “And I would know because I’ve been out here for nearly two years, and I haven’t caught a hint of daemons. I'm pretty certain they're gone for good.”

Daemons were no more, a reality as difficult to comprehend as the coming of Dawn after a decade of darkness. They had faded without a trace, as quickly as night had turned to day. The destruction and misery they had caused during the ten years prior were the only proof that they had existed at all.

If the Starscourge was a plague—violent, deadly, and cataclysmic—the shadow illness was a slow cancer that lingered and gnawed at the souls of the afflicted, until nothing was left but a hollow husk. But the symptoms shared were nonetheless an understandable cause for concern. Those afflicted often fell ill and succumbed to hallucinations, the dark roots of the ailment manifesting in the black smog lacing their breaths and tainting their vision. All the symptoms were evident and tell-tale.

“I’m not saying the two are unrelated. They probably are,” Prompto continued, “But these people—they’re not turning into daemons. They’re sick and dying, and they need our help.”

Fear and misplaced anger revolved around afflicted individuals—good, innocent people who suddenly found themselves spurned from society—friends turning against friends, family against family. No one could predict who may be affected next, but with each cycle of night and day, the numbers only seemed to grow. Politicians and healers were equally at a loss as to what to do.

“I know we’re working hard in preventing the illness from spreading,” Prompto sighed, “But the people who are already sick, they are the ones who need help the most. They feel forgotten."

Certain places were more amenable than others—safe havens for those carrying the disease. Within the boundary of the havens, symptoms would ameliorate without known cause or reason. Despite their mysterious properties, havens were a two-edged sword. Segregated and hidden from the rest of Eos, these communities often harbored lawlessness, hunger, and poverty, but leaving would entail the risk of an outbreak, of being discovered and incarcerated in a strange place where people feared, and sometimes, loathed you.

“He was stealing food,” Prompto emphasized, watching the fire without actually seeing, “Taking it with him—probably to feed a family, or hell, even a village.”

“He got pretty far on his own though,” Iris noted, “The closest shadow haven is all the way across the drylands past Hammerhead, or at least, the closest known haven.”

“I just wish—” Prompto grimaced, unable to translate his frustration into words. “We could do more for them.”

“You have a really big heart, Prompto,” Iris smiled kindly. “You’re trying your best, but don't beat yourself up if you can’t save everyone.”

“I know.” Prompto slumped in his chair, rubbing tiredness from his eyes, “No one can. Not even Noct.”

A brief moment of silence passed between them, as Iris chewed on her lower lip. “Do you think about Noct a lot?” she finally asked.

“Not a lot.” Prompto winced at his obvious lie. “Just the normal amount of thinking, for someone who had lost his best friend.”

“I’m not saying you should or shouldn’t,” Iris said, “Everyone’s different and should grieve in their own way, but—remember that you still have friends who care and worry about you. Please take good care of yourself and ask for help if you ever need it. It’s what—Noct would have wanted.”

Iris’s words were gentle, but her dark eyes sang of a sorrow that bore heavily into Prompto. She didn’t have to guess what Noct would have wanted, because in a way, Prompto already knew. He wondered what Iris must see, sitting here beside him—a sad, lost man in a self-imposed exile, finding comfort only in conversations with ghosts.

“You left this at the palace.” Iris dug into her satchel to retrieve a small bundle carefully wrapped in string and silk. “I don’t know if you meant to leave it or not but—I just thought maybe you’d want it back. You used to loved this thing.”

Even without unwrapping it, Prompto knew exactly what Iris had brought him. He exhaled a startled laugh, suddenly overwhelmed by the warmth of nostalgia and the ache of hollow grief. Nevertheless, he accepted the package.

“Thank you,” he said to Iris, softly but meaningfully.

~~

Prompto did not touch the package again until the end of the following month, long after he and Iris had gone their separate ways. Prompto inspected the silk covered bundle, the binding falling apart with a gentle tug of the butterfly bow to reveal the most precious gift Prompto had received as a boy, nearly fifteen years ago, from his best friend.

Prompto allowed his tears to fall as he touched his camera with the gentleness and care as one would hold a fragile robin’s egg. There was some wear around the sides of the camera, scratches on the lens from both the haphazardness of boyhood and the perilousness of their journey. The photos were all there though, the memory intact.

The timeline of photos began with the start of their journey to Altissa, the four friends leaning against the Regalia—happy, smiling, and woefully naïve of the horrors that awaited once the gates of the Crown City closed behind them. Prompto had brought his camera along in part because he wanted to record their story—Noct’s and Luna’s story. Sure, there were plenty of pictures of himself riding Chocobos and posing before Dualhorns, but those were purely for entertainment. They weren’t part of the unfinished gift he had planned to give Noct after his wedding.

The pictures Prompto had taken with the most effort and care were of Noct, of their friends bantering playfully in the Regalia or sharing a quiet meal by the campfire after a tiring hunt. They were pictures of Noct casting his fishing line off the pier in the Galdin Shoals, smiling in his broodingly, handsome way when he caught a phoenix bass for their supper. They were pictures of them heading out to sea by ferry and gliding along the water routes of Altissa in a gondola surrounded by city lights.

Prompto was rarely featured in these photos because his gift to Noctis was not about him, but rather, what he saw during their journey together—a story retold through the lens of an invisible photographer and devoted friend. It was meant to be a tale of immutable and unconditional love.

There were no photos during the interim which Noctis had slept, during the decade long darkness that threatened to smother the small, but defiant glimmer of hope that Noctis would return for them. And Noctis did return, if only for a short while to sacrifice his own soul, so that he could save them all.

The last photo was of Noctis, Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto, standing before the ruins of Insomnia awaiting the final battle. And after that, the screen of the camera faded to black.

Just as Prompto had anticipated, the memories of Noct reopened old wounds anew, the unspeakable pain of longing and loss almost too much for him to bear. But Noct wasn’t the only one captured in these photos. Ignis, Gladio, Iris, and other friends that Prompto had made along the way—Prompto missed them dearly.

So why can he not find the strength or courage to face them, to return to them now?

~~

“Iris loved you,” Prompto said to Noct as they settled atop a hill overlooking the horizon of the divine realm, the orange crescent moon hanging low in the indigo sky, thin and sharp like a knife’s edge.

“I suppose,” Noct hummed, “But she was also only fifteen then.”

“You were really worried about her,” Prompto recalled, “About your friendship with her and Gladio. You even asked Gladio to intervene.”

“I didn’t want it to get out of hand,” Noct said plainly, “I thought it would be best to be straightforward.”

Iris, despite her many talents, never quite mastered the art of subtlety. Gladio had sat her down one afternoon and explained, with gentle and brotherly concern, that the stars were simply not meant to align for her and Noct. Noct was destined to marry Luna and bring peace to an Eos tired and ravaged by war. He was beyond the reach of individual love, owning his life to the greater purpose of both leading and caring for his people.

“So why didn’t you ask anyone to lecture me about all of this?” Prompto asked. It was a question, but it was pertaining to their past, and Noct usually deemed those questions reasonable enough to answer. If anything, Noctis was more open about his past, now that his only presence was in Prompto’s dreams.

“I suppose I was selfish,” Noct admitted, “And a hypocrite, when it came to you. I didn’t care if the stars were aligned or not. I wanted to be with you, even if it was temporary.”

“Do you feel guilty?”

“No,” Noct said, “Maybe in the beginning, but…Luna and I, our marriage was a political arrangement. I’ve met her only a few times in our youth, but I kept in touch with her for nearly a decade. I cared for her deeply, but I didn’t really know her. At least, not like the way I knew you.”

“And we would have stopped, if the marriage had gone through,” Prompto added, but his words felt like a cheap consolation, unconvincing and insincere. “Do you think we could have?”

“It wasn’t a matter of whether we could or could not,” Noct said, “But giving you up—it would be one of the hardest things I would ever have to do.”

Prompto nodded vacantly, covering Noct’s hand with his own and lacing together their finger. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth and realness of it, strong and slightly roughened from years of practiced swordsmanship. Prompto brought Noct’s hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles as would a knight swearing loyalty to his king.

He hoped Noct was right, even if they only spoke of imaginary lives. He hoped Noct was right, for the sake of Luna and everyone in Eos who would have depended on their union for peace and reprieve. But could a political marriage truly have kept them apart, when even death now could not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback greatly appreciated! <3


	3. Umbra

The past few days could only be described as aimless, as Prompto wandered the drylands of Leide without any real purpose or direction. In the distance, the rocky, arid terrain merged with the sparse forests surrounding Galdin, the ethereal glow of the port city shining like a beacon in the desert night. Hammerhead was not far away either, should Prompto seek proper lodging or the company of a friend, but with neither the gil nor the energy to entertain conversation, Prompto chose to set up camp instead.

A rustle in the tall grass signified the presence of an unexpected visitor, perhaps enticed by the warm fire or the heady aroma of roast hare. Prompto reached for his pistol out of instinct but did not draw it, for something about this presence felt benevolent and familiar.

“Umbra?” he whispered as a black and gray hound emerged from the grass—sharp, golden eyes glistening beneath the moonlight. “Hey, buddy, what are you doing all the way out here?”

Umbra hobbled closer, a small whimper reverberating in his throat as the ground beneath stained black with each staggering step. Prompto approached the canine, kneeling as he took the outstretched limb.

“Thorn in your paw, huh?” Prompto hummed, “Well, let me take a look at it for you.”

The injury was not severe, but agitation from dust and heat had caused the wound to swell. Umbra watched patiently as Prompto inspected his paw, spraying disinfectant over the tender flesh before wrapping it in clean bandages.

After Prompto loosened his hold, Umbra tentatively pressed his paw to the ground, testing the pressure he could withstand. Deeming the patchwork satisfactory, the black hound redirected his attention to the fire and the roasting hare.

“Hungry too, are you?” Prompto chuckled, “Well, I wasn’t expecting company, but there should be enough for both of us.”

Prompto finished dinner with Umbra by his side, gnawing at the remains of the hare carcass. Prompto ruffled the canine’s fur absently, noting the missing satchel that Umbra had worn on his back, which once held the lover’s notebook between Noctis and Luna.

When he was a teenager, Prompto had rescued Pryna when one of her missions had gone awry. Injured and lost on her way to visit Prince Noctis, Prompto took the small white pup into his home, fed her and dressed her wounds, only for her to return a few days later with a note of gratitude from Lady Lunafreya. It was after Prompto and Noct had become inseparable that Prompto learned of Luna’s other messenger hound, Pryna’s black furred brother, Umbra. 

“You’re all alone too now, aren’t you?” Prompto whispered sullenly.

Umbra detached himself from the bones of the hare and looked up at Prompto with almost knowing eyes. Prompto wondered if Umbra could understand him. He wasn’t a regular dog, after all.

When Ignis had found Luna on the Alter of the Tidemother—her last breaths leaving her still warm body—Pryna had reached her then as well, before faltering under the weight of pain and loss.

“I didn’t think anyone could die from a broken heart,” Prompto thought aloud, “But now, I kind of believe it.”

Was it truly the Astrals who had brought him to Noctis—his presence as vital as that of Ignis, Gladio, and Luna—so that Noct could fulfill the prophecy as the True King, to return light to a lightless world? Was it fate that demanded Prompto to befriend Noct, to love him, and then to lose him so that countless lives, including his own, could be saved? 

The pain of losing Noct, of losing their friendship and the hopes they had shared, felt everlasting and irremediable. But Prompto knew that his broken heart was only small potatoes in the grand scheme, and he carried this knowledge every day like a wound.

“But you stuck around with the rest of us,” Prompto continued, scratching affectionately behind Umbra’s ear, “You’re strong…But you loved Luna as much as Pryna, and you had lost both of them. So maybe you couldn’t die because you still had work to so. You guided Noct back to us, after all.”

What more could be asked of a divine messenger, Prompto thought, when there were no messages to be sent and no recipients to be found? But for some reason, Umbra chose to remain in the ephemeral time and space of the mortal world, with nothing but the absence of his loved ones in his heart. 

Perhaps, Umbra was here because his job still wasn’t quite done yet.

“Noct’s gone too now, but you’re still—” Prompto paused, the rest of his sentence swallowed by a sob. “Well, I’m not Noct, but you’re free to stick around for as long as you’d like, old friend.”

Prompto fell asleep that night beside the fire, with Umbra warm and solid against his back. Sometime during the night, Prompto stirred awake from a frigid gust of wind to find the fire out and Umbra gone. In the distance, he heard a lone howl—a forlorn and harrowing sound, like a lover’s mourn.

It was not until morning that Prompto found the gift Umbra had left for him: a charm with a sigil in the shape of a crescent moon.

~~ 

Prompto received a call from Cindy later in the week and immediately sensed that something was amiss, the way panic underlined her normally sunny drawl. 

“A monster attack _and_ a refugee crisis?” Prompto grimaced as he sped down the highway on his motorbike, the cliffs and trees along the highway blurring into a mesh of greens, beiges, and browns. “Alright, don’t worry. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

By the time Prompto arrived in Hammerhead, the gas station and repair stop had transformed into a makeshift camp for dozens of refugees, all of them afflicted by the shadow illness. Cindy bustled about among the ill, handing out food and blankets and ordering other workers to do the same. She waved at him with a sigh of relief, once their eyes finally locked.

“Well, I sure am glad to see you,” Cindy smiled despite the anxious pinch of her brow, “Thanks for comin' on such short notice.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Prompto said, swallowing as he watched the people huddled across the camp—men, women, and children alike—the sickest among them writhing in cots and grasping at nothing. Ink poured from their eyes and mouths. “What happened?”

“Not entirely sure,” Cindy sighed, wiping the dewy sweat from her forehead, “But they showed up early mornin' by the dozens. Said their haven was attacked by a monster yesterday. These were the only ones who managed to escape.” 

“A monster?” Prompto repeated, “What kind of a monster?”

“Not sure,” Cindy said, “Just some giant— _thing_. Attacked them out of nowhere in broad daylight.”

“Daylight, huh?” Prompto mused, furrowing his brows in thought, “Not a daemon, then.”

“Or at least, highly unlikely.”

“What did it look like?”

“No one knows,” Cindy shrugged, “Or at least, no one can agree to a description—large claws, sharp teeth, wings maybe? Some think it might even be a ghost.” 

“Sounds like hysteria to me,” a rough, dour-looking man interrupted their conversation—a hunter judging by his attire and impressive physique. “How do we even know what they saw was real? They see things all the time.” 

“Alright, Beau,” Cindy admonished, all daggers in her glare, “Your mom ever taught you to stay quiet, if you ain’t got nothin' helpful to say?” 

Prompto watched the hunter leave with an indignant huff, retrieving more packages from the warehouse despite the obvious look of disinclination in his frown. 

“Whatever attacked them, it’s bad enough for them to come here for help,” Cindy continued, “And as much as I’d like to help them, they can’t stay here for long because Hammerhead’s not a haven for them. They’ll only get sicker if they stay.”

“So you want me to go take a look at that monster for you?” Prompto concluded, tilting his head in the general direction of the drylands behind him.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Cindy sighed, “Take the bastard out, whatever it is.”

“No problem,” Prompto smiled, tapping his forehead with his fingers in a mock salute, “You can always count on me, Cindy.”

~~ 

The highway could only take him so far, before Prompto was forced to forgo his bike and continue the rest of the journey on foot. The haven was not far off the road, but the steep valleys and jagged cliffs obstructed the distance, making the moderately short trip unpredictably arduous. Prompto squinted at the blazing sun as a shadow danced before him, casted by the silhouette of a canine friend.

Umbra released a solitary bark atop a rocky cliff, leaping from ledge to ledge until he reached where Prompto had stood. The bandage was still secured on his food, but judging from the swiftness and ease of his movements, the wound caused him little trouble now. Umbra wagged his tail as Prompto knelt before him and ruffled his dark fur. 

“I must be on the right track then,” Prompto smiled, “To find you here, buddy.” 

Umbra let out another bark before sprinting down the road. He watched Prompto expectantly for a moment, beckoning the blonde to follow.

By the time Prompto reached the haven, the place looked like a ghost town—or more accurately, a town kissed by the angel of death—the remains of the fallen laid scattered on the streets, abandoned by those fortunate to escape with their lives.

Prompto regarded the bodies with a silent prayer, the tell-tale signs of the shadow illness evident on their pale, hollow faces. But these corpses were different from the ones he had seen—their glassy eyes wide open with shock and horror frozen in suspension, as if their life had somehow been forcibly extracted from their cores.

In the middle of the town square stood a hooded figure, who realized Prompto’s presence as soon as Prompto spotted him. It was the boy thief, the same Prompto had encountered after hunting with Iris. In broad daylight, and under the protection of the haven, Prompto finally managed his first good look at the boy. 

He stood eye-level to Prompto, perhaps a few inches shorter—lean and leery, like a feral cat. His eyes were dark—a stark contrast to his silver, white hair—or at least his right eye that bore the color he was likely born with. His left eye was as pale as a cloudy autumn sky, the skin around it marred by a long, jagged scar, an old injury had rendered that eye blind. 

“What are you doing here?” the boy snarled viciously, before Prompto could ask the same.

Prompto opened his palms before him, approaching the boy with caution. “I didn’t expect to find anyone left in this town, but I’m here to help.”

“Get out of here!” The boy shouted before Prompto could take more than three steps. “You can’t fight it!”

“Can’t fight what?” Prompto asked, just as Umbra’s abrupt barking scattered his thoughts. He turned to the hound to find him transfixed to the sky, seemingly heckling at nothing.

Prompto only managed to catch a glimpse of the fear in the boy’s eyes, before he was hauled into the air by something strong, vicious, and invisible. Prompto braced himself for impact as the ground crashed towards him only to be struck again, clattering through several wooden crates before skidding to a halt against the cracked dirt beneath. 

He gritted his teeth, fear and adrenaline numbing his bruised and broken body, his ears deafened by panicked ringing. He tried to find the boy, find Umbra, but his eyes stunned from dirt mixing with his own boiling blood. With the last of his strength, he drew his pistol, aiming blindly at the sky and firing on instinct. The dreadful, monstrous sound that followed, Prompto felt more than he heard.

“Get out of the way! Get out!” The boy shouted against the backdrop of Umbra’s barking, but Prompto could not move, could barely breathe, and only by the saving grace of the Astrals did he not perish in that moment. 

Curtains of light cascaded over his trembling body, shielding him from a parry of blows that soon followed. A sound resonated in the core of his bones, a despairing noise like that of frustration or pain, intensifying as light circled Prompto’s limp body like ribbons, lifting him towards the sky.

Prompto watched blearily as the moon sigil he wore around his neck floated before his vision, a resounding crack splitting the pendant into two.

~~ 

By the time Prompto regained consciousness, he found himself in a hospital bed, nearly suffocating beneath tightly tucked sheets. Umbra, in response to his movement, perked his ears, but remained otherwise static by his bedside. The pendant that had saved his life rested on the night stand beside him. Broken as it is, Prompto doubted that it could save him again but decided to loop the chain around his neck, just in case. The pain that followed when he lifted an arm caused him to nearly double over.

“Oh, thank Astrals you’re awake!” Iris gasped as she peeked her head through the door of his hospital room. “I was beginning to wonder if the sedation they gave you was permanent.”

“Iris?” Prompto turned to her, surprised. “W—Where am I? What are you doing here?”

Iris was the second to arrive in Hammerhead in response to Cindy’s distress call. She had found her way to the haven just in time to recover Prompto’s unconscious body—battered, bloodied, but alive. Further calls were made to relocate the refugees from Hammerhead to a different haven, while an aircraft was dispatched to her location, to ship Prompto to the nearest hospital in Galdin. Being the daughter of a royal family certainly had its privileges, Prompto thought. Iris managed to accomplish more with a phone call than he did with his life hanging by a thread. 

“What happened to you?” she asked, brows pinched with sisterly concern.

“I don’t know.” Prompto shook his head, running a bandaged hand through his hair. “Something was out there, preying on those people. Something I couldn’t see, but the boy—the boy!” He widened his eyes, memories flooding back. “What happened to him?”

“What boy?” Iris asked. “There was no one there, besides you and Umbra.”

“The boy from the market, the thief we caught together,” Prompto grimaced as he pushed himself to sit, “He was in the haven when that— _thing_ attacked.”

“I didn’t see him,” Iris frowned, “At least, not among the bodies we recovered. We’re working on identifying them now, just to be sure.”

“Head full of silver hair,” Prompto groaned as he pulled back the covers, “No way you would have missed him. We need to—Oof!”

Iris pushed Prompto back down onto the bed with a gentle, but assuring hand. “A dislocated shoulder, three cracked ribs, punctured lung—You’re out of commission for a while, Prompto. Doctor’s orders.”

“B-but—” Prompto sputtered gracelessly, but Iris dismissed his protests with a wave. 

“I’ll relocate the refugees, look for the kid, and have someone take care of that monster too—maybe a team of someone, considering the number it did on you.” She furrowed her brows in thought.

Prompto wanted to add more to the list, but honestly, could not think of anything that Iris had not already considered. Iris rolled her eyes at his worried frown.

“Oh, come on, I can handle it. As if I haven’t been cleaning up your mess for the past two years.”

“I know. I trust you,” Prompto sank into the pile of pillows behind him, defeated. “It’s just—I don’t feel right sitting here and doing nothing when there’s so much left to be done.” 

“Well, if you _really_ want something to do.” The devious grin Iris wore should have been enough of a warning. “You can help sift through the RSVPs for Gladdy’s wedding. Ignis was supposed to call with instructions, but I can redirect him to you.” 

Prompto covered his face with the crook of his arm, groaning. “I think I’d rather be sedated. Ask the pretty nurse with the large needle to come back.

“Well, if I’m stuck doing your job, it’s only fair that you do mine.” Iris leaned over and kissed Prompto on his bandaged cheek, before sauntering out the hospital room, clearly pleased with herself. She halted at the door to give Prompto a kinder smile. “Just focus on getting better, alright? The sooner you do, the sooner you can get back out there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is turning out more Prompto-centric, but Noct will definitely play a big part soon. Thanks so much for reading! Reviews are greatly appreciated!
> 
> Also, feel free to find me on tumblr, jamesalarcon. I'm mostly a footie blog, but I will be happy to entertain Promptis plot bunnies.


	4. Old friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry took an extra week for the update, but thanks for being patient with me! I have the general plotline pretty much figured out. Finding time to write is always the hard part.
> 
> Renamed from "World Undone" because in my indecision, I finally decided on a latin phrase.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated <3

Prompto considered himself fortunate that Ignis was more interested in touching bases than filtering through the RSVP for Gladio’s wedding because honestly, there could not have been a subject matter more baffling for Prompto than royal relations. Maybe that was why Ignis did not bother with briefing Prompto on the assignment after Iris had unceremoniously passed it to him. Ignis would probably save more energy and time working alone, without having to fix Prompto’s mistakes or answer his idiotic questions.

“You were injured during your last hunt, or at least, that was the message relayed to me,” Ignis said, his image pixelated and blue on the tablet Iris had left for him. “I hope you are recovering well.”

“Yeah, I’m doing alright now,” Prompto winced, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Though, it’s probably for the best that you can’t see me.”

Ignis let out a soft chuckle. “It’s good to talk to you again, Prompto.”

They discussed the wedding briefly, and how it was per royal tradition that only the closest people to the bride and groom should contribute to the planning, despite the remarkable temptation to simply hire someone to work through the nitty-gritty details of the extravagant ceremony.

“There is something romantic about a royal union, don’t you think?” Ignis mused, leafing through the files on his desk. “Romantic in the sense of idyllic, or inspired." 

Despite his blindness, Ignis had managed to adapt seamlessly—first in a world of perpetual darkness, and now in an interim without kings. He had learned to read at a exceptional pace with only his finger along the small bumps and grooves of translated text, while a trusted servant would accompany him, jotting down his thoughts in encrypted texts that only he could decipher later on. Ignis remained a shrewd and practical advisor to the royal families, and Prompto was certain that Ignis might be the only one keeping the citadel from completely spiraling into chaos. 

“The wedding is a symbol of hope,” Ignis said, “And leaders must lead by example. We must show the people that—despite the pain and loss of the decade prior—there is reason to move forward.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Prompto nodded, “And I’m happy that Gladio has found someone to share this hope.

“Lucis looks to us now,” Ignis agreed, “For better or for worse.” 

“I think I’ve had enough of the limelight,” Prompto sighed, “You and Gladio can take care of that.”

“Oh, don’t think you can escape that easily,” Ignis smiled, “You still come up in tabloids from time to time. Hero of the people.”

“You read tabloids about me?” Prompto arched a brow.

“I read everything,” Ignis replied easily. “More so to keep up with public relations. We are in no condition to deal with needless scaremongering.” 

Prompto frowned. “I don’t need the papers turning me into something I’m not.”

“I know, but that doesn’t stop people from hoping, from looking for heroes.” Ignis nodded to himself. “The war doesn’t end just because the guns stop firing, or the prophecy’s fulfilled. Noct had done as much as he could, but it’s up to us now, to carry through the rest of the way.”

A moment of silence passed between them, before Ignis spoke again, his words poised but deliberated and practiced. “I’ve had a lot of time to think in recent months, and I guess I am still trying to reconcile with what happened.”

Prompto looked up so quickly that he nearly risked whiplashed. “About Noct?” he blurted aloud—a touch too sudden, pathetic, and searching. They never talked about what happened, at least not since _when_ it had happened. Noct, the prophecy, his sacrifice—those simply were not welcomed topics of discussion for any party involved.

“Yes, Noct,” Ignis looked sheepish. “But also, the rest of us. I’ve been thinking, and—we have been remarkably awful at condolences.”

“What do you mean?” Prompto asked. 

“You, Gladio, and I—how we had drifted apart the moment Noct had gone,” Ignis chuckled softly, “And how I had failed to even notice, until after it had already happened.”

“We each had our own way of dealing with grief,” Prompto frowned.

“Maybe,” Ignis replied, “But it was not only grief, even though the grief was profound enough.”

“What else?”

“The weight of failure, guilt,” Ignis said, “Admonishing ourselves into thinking that this was our fault, that our hope or sheer force of will could somehow have overcome a 2000-year-old prophecy. Whether it was hubris, naivety, or desperation mattered not. We couldn’t save Noct, because Noct was not ours to save.”

Prompto opened his mouth, but no words could escape his tightening throat. He looked at Ignis—shaken, exposed, and vaguely offended by how close Ignis had managed to hit home. “Why are you telling me this now?”

Ignis shrugged, the pool of sadness in his eyes hidden behind dark-tinted spectacles. He had always been the calm voice of reason, even when Gladio and Noct had bickered under the weight of responsibility and Prompto had watched on, helpless and paralyzed by fear, even as the world around them tumbled and all hope seemed beyond their reach. 

“I felt the need to share my two-cents and my apology, however belated they might be,” Ignis sighed, “The course of fate was beyond our altering, but we could have been kinder to each other, in the wake of loss.”

After a long silence, during which Prompto ransacked his mind for a response but failed to conjure anything but shortened breaths, Ignis added almost shyly, “I could be wrong.”

“Like hell you ever are, Iggy.” Prompto laughed, incredulous. “But don’t apologize, not for this—please, don’t.”

Ignis shouldn’t apologize, not when it was Prompto who could barely face his two friends after Noct had disappeared into the Crystal the first time. Ignis and Gladio, even in their twenties, were leaders of men—honorable, shrewd, and indomitable in the face of tragedy. But Prompto—the child he was—had fallen apart.

Ignis was apologizing now for his own chosen acquiescence during the decade of darkness, but Prompto was the one who had ran away first, and it was not Ignis’ responsibility to chase after him. Prompto wanted to bargain, to wail, and to plead without having his weakness juxtaposed to the perseverance and strength of his friends. He had just lost Noct, and for the longest of time, Noct was all he had. He did not want to be comforted. He did not want to carry on.

“I am not asking for you to return to the Crown City,” Ignis continued, “Although you are more than welcomed should you choose to stay. Just remember that you have friends in the military, in the citadel. There is no need to bargain with death on your own.”

“That was quite a roundabout way to lecture me on being careful,” Prompto attempted to jest, but the quiver in his voice betrayed him. “Thank you, Ignis,” he eventually managed with a genuine smile, “I’ll keep this in mind.”

~~ 

Prompto did not tell Ignis about his monthly trysts with Noct in his alcohol-induced dreams. Considering his already impressive burden of overwork, Ignis did not need any additional reasons to worry, about Prompto no less. Instead, Prompto asked Ignis for a small favor, which Ignis was only happy to oblige.

Bedridden for another month, Prompto had all the time in the world to read. He asked for information on the shadow illness—research papers, hospital records, news articles—anything Ignis, in his power, could find. Stacks of papers soon covered the surfaces of his hospital room, replacing the vases of lilies that Iris had brought for him. Prompt leafed through the documents, his bland hospital breakfast untouched and forgotten at the foot of his bed. He chewed on the cap of his pen as he processed the information, his head buzzing and numb from both restlessness and intense focus.

 

 

**_The Lestallum Tribune_ **

_Five cases of umbramortis— or commonly known as the shadow illness—have been confirmed in Lestallum and governing regions. The Ministry of Health is leading the response in affected areas and continues to monitor the outbreak. While the origin, cause, and cure of umbramortis remain unknown, the ministry is cautiously optimistic towards control. Symptoms of umbramortis include outflow of miasma from the eyes and the mouths, seizures, headaches, terrors, and hallucinations. Despite similarities to the Scarscourge that ravaged Eos in the previous decade, umbramortis cannot be explained by any protozoan infection, nor does it appear to lengthen the night or underlie daemon attacks. Numerous daemon sightings have been reported since the outbreak of umbramortis, but officials have yet to confirm any incidences to be true since the return of the First Dawn._

_Officials are working extensively to locate shadow havens, or mysterious areas of influence where symptoms of umbramortis appear to lessen. Meanwhile, the citadel urges the people of Claigne to remain calm, proceed with caution, and exercise sound judgement. Those affected with umbramortis pose no known danger, but the nature of their illness requires immediate assistance and relocation._

-

 

**_After-Action Report for the Greyshire Investigation_ **

_Investigation was initiated after an influx of refugees in Lestallum, after claims of an attack in a temporary settlement in Greyshire. Refugees consisted of 12 men, 15 women, and 10 children—all suffering from umbramortis. Witnesses could not provide a consistent description of the assailant, although the assailant is unlikely human in nature._

_Troops were deployed to the site of attack the next day. Signs of ambush were ambiguous. Despite superficial damage to the settlement, most of the infrastructure remained intact. Nonetheless, bodies of those who perished from the alleged attack were found in the streets and inside shelters. Total body count was determined to be 28—8 men, 13 women, and 7 children. Bodies were transported Lestallum for further pathological investigation. Attached are autopsy reports of the deceased._

-

 

**_Lestallum Hospital - Medical Examiner Report_ **

_The victim described in this report is female, between the age of 12 and 15. Time of death is estimated to be around 48 hours before the body was recovered. While alive, the victim suffered from umbramortis, evident by remnants of darkness around the eyes and graying of the skin. The victim also showed signs of malnutrition, more so a symptom of poor living conditions than that of umbramortis. Otherwise, the victim appeared heathy—no signs of concurrent illnesses or parasitic infections. The body of the victim showed no signs of force or struggle and no external injuries that may be associated with the cause of death. At the time of writing, cause of death is unknown, manner of death is unknown, and how the incident occurred is unknown._

~~

By the end of the second week, Prompto felt like crawling out of his own skin. Restless and boredom festered in the cores of his bones, like an itch that he could not reach. Iris visited him from time to time, but the news she brought did little to quell his nerves. She had failed to locate both the monster and the boy, while admitting that these mysterious attacks on shadow havens were not a new phenomenon and similar incidences before had astonishingly escaped their notice.

“The first was in Greyshire almost a year ago,” Iris recounted, “And then another near the Saxham Outpost in early spring. This attack in Galdin was the third in less than a year.”

“How come no one reported on them?” Prompto asked.

“There were reports, but they never made the front page.” Iris shook her head. “Everyone chalked it up to hysteria—but hysteria shouldn’t have a body count like this.”

Iris resumed her investigation, while Prompto, despite his complaints, continued his recovery. Reading no longer calmed him, and neither did flirting with the attractive nurses while they made their rounds. By dusk of the third week, Prompto was determined to gain some form of respite from the agonizing monotony of recovery, as he stared down at the very scalable balcony beneath his window and formulated an escape ploy.

“You won’t tell anyone, would you?” Prompto whispered to Umbra, his body half out the window. “I’ll be back, I promise. I need to see Noct tonight.”

Prompto worked his way down to the street beneath, thankful that his room was only on the third floor. He calculated his movements carefully to avoid exacerbating his injuries but reasoned that even if he did manage to fall, the hospital was right _here_. Dealing with Iris’ consternation, however, was another story.

By the time he finally set foot on the cement sidewalk, Umbra was already waiting for him.

“How did you—” Prompto stammered, before sighing. “Divine messenger of the Oracle. Yeah, yeah, I get it.” He leaned over and scratched Umbra’s ears. “Sorry, should’ve asked if you wanted to come along. You must’ve been dying of boredom too.” 

Prompto strolled about the port city of Galdin that wore its incandescent lights even as the sky above had dimmed to black. Muffled music behind closed doors drifted in the hot summer air, mingling with laughter and the piquant smell of seafood. Umbra walked beside Prompto without a leash, curiosity occasionally roused by inebriated girls that cooed over him and ruffled his dark fur. Umbra welcomed the attention with a gratified wag of his tail, while Prompto rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Come on, buddy. We can’t stay here all night.”

Prompto eventually found a dingy pub tucked away at the end of a cul-de-sac. He stepped inside and winced into the dimness of the interior, the lights so faint that even the moon outside appeared brighter. Prompto walked past the hunched backs of somber patrons drinking alone to the euphony of soulful jazz music. He slipped onto a stool and tapped his finger on the counter as the bartender approached—a tired man in his fifties with hollow eyes beneath tigerish, graying eyebrows.

Prompto ordered a drink just to take the edge off. He did not want to meet Noct here, in a run-down pub with half a dozen miserable patrons. He would find a liquor store elsewhere after one drink, after his hands were steady and his heart no longer threatened to hammer through his chest. But before Prompto could press his lips to the glass, Umbra started to bark—loudly and incessantly—outside the entrance of the pub.

“Sorry, that’s my dog,” Prompto excused himself, embarrassed by the attention he had drawn. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him tonight.”

Prompto pushed passed the door to the pub, and the moment he stepped his foot outside, Galdin Quay ceased to exist all around him. 

Prompto stumbled, caught out by the vertigo of the sudden shift. He balanced himself between the stone pillars of a great temple, dropping his untouched drink in a daze. The glass proceeded to shatter into hundreds of glistening pieces. 

Prompto adjusted himself to his surroundings, feeling infinitesimally small between grand pillars that casted alternating stripes of shadows and moonlight on the dark, marble floor. A tall figure appeared before him, clad in ancient armor that somehow appeared both cumbersome and adaptable on his lean but strong body. He wielded a simple sword—a _familiar_ sword—between gloved hands. And behind him flared the ebony feathers of multiple wings.

“I am Optimus Lucis Caelum,” came the thundering voice beneath the armor, “King of Wisdom, the 108th ruler of Lucis.”

Prompto swallowed heavily as he blinked down at his spilled drink and then at the ghost of a king who had died long before his existence. “With all due respect—your majesty,” he stammered, “I was actually trying to contact the—uhh—114th Lucian King?”

“You have been chosen, Prompto Argentum of Lucis,” Optimus continued as if Prompto hadn’t spoken at all, “To restore the rightful kingship to the throne of Lucis, to save Eos from another century of darkness and war.”

“Chosen?” Prompto sputtered, “By whom?”

And then, as if to provide an answer to his idiotic question, rows and rows of former kings and queens appeared before him—dark, majestic, and proud.

Prompto’s knees felt weak, and it took all the strength he could muster to remain on his feet. The rulers had gathered before him—all 114 of them—as the last appeared only an arm’s distance away, without weapon or armor, like a bridge between Prompto and 2000 years of history and prophecy.

Noctis smiled beneath a stripe a moonlight. “Care to do one last favor for an old friend?”


End file.
